


Crash Love

by S_Hylor



Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Getting Together, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Shameless Smut, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 07:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5155379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Hylor/pseuds/S_Hylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just sex. Just sex between two consenting adults who don’t have feelings for each other beyond the camaraderie that comes from being on the same team.</p><p>It’s just sex. Until it isn’t. It’s not love. Until it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One – Darling, I Want to Destroy You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 Marvel Universe Big Bang Challenge. 
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful artist [ireallyshouldbedrawing](http://ireallyshouldbedrawing.tumblr.com/) for working with me on this project, and for drawing such wonderful amazing art to accompany the story. 
> 
> Thanks also to my much harassed beta [quandong_crumble](http://archiveofourown.org/users/quandong_crumble/pseuds/quandong_crumble) for doing such a wonderful last minute beta job on this story. Really, I mean last minute, I gave her less than a week, because I'm a slacker who took forever to proof read my own story before I sent it to her. So yes, many thanks to Q for managing to beta this on such short notice. 
> 
> Many thanks also to [LagLemon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LagLemon/pseuds/LagLemon) for supporting me the whole way through this epic pile of shameless smut, and insisting that it was a good story even when I doubted it. 
> 
>  
> 
> So, I present my 21 thousand words of shameless smut, that attempted to have a plot, but it really really doesn't. Believe me. 
> 
> Links to the wonderful artwork by [ireallyshouldbedrawing](http://ireallyshouldbedrawing.tumblr.com/): [Part 1.1](https://40.media.tumblr.com/71d70fc98650dd2bcbbbbaf6494a7eac/tumblr_nxe32lZit11rpr5kno1_1280.jpg) [Part 1.2](https://36.media.tumblr.com/703e1e63c881f9d42becf31500a31157/tumblr_nxe32lZit11rpr5kno6_1280.jpg) [Part 1.3](https://40.media.tumblr.com/b46182bc11c48fe3e88ff76050eebb84/tumblr_nxe32lZit11rpr5kno2_1280.jpg) [Part 2.1](https://40.media.tumblr.com/46c36b0c51caece3af0dfe87093f93eb/tumblr_nxe32lZit11rpr5kno3_1280.jpg) [Part 2.2](https://40.media.tumblr.com/41302797264a1acbd13ee4ebec9c0f37/tumblr_nxe32lZit11rpr5kno4_r2_1280.jpg) [Part 2.3](https://40.media.tumblr.com/d17f6710e5ec4f179e4fc30076357dcb/tumblr_nxe32lZit11rpr5kno5_1280.jpg)
> 
> Part 2 is kinda spoilerish for the end of the story, so while you should definitely should look t this wonderful artwork, I also feel obliged to mention the spoiler warning. So, definitely look at the art, but maybe read the story first. Entirely up to you as individual readers, though.

He repeats the phrase he said before, the exact same words, same pause after the term of endearment, but his tone has changed entirely. It is no longer something slick and well-practiced, something used and a little challenging. It is softer around the edges, just like his eyes are, the words slip sliding together down a slope that Steve doesn’t know he can come back from, matching the frantic beat of his heart, too hard and too fast and skewing everything out of proportion.

Those words, from Tony’s lips, are softer and mean so much more than they had before, too dangerous in how gentle they are.

“Darling, I want to destroy you.”

_You do._ It is all he can think, body reacting to those words, that tone, the too light sweep of hands down his chest and along his sides. _You do. Oh how you do._ He can’t say it back, the words that he thought had been a challenge at first, but were always painfully an invitation that he just didn’t want to utter. _I_ _want to let you._

He does want, it is always wanting and never having until it is so close. So close like the way that Tony’s eyes seem to be smiling even if his mouth isn’t. Smiling and endearing and it is too much.

And oh how it terrifies him.

“I’d like to see you try, Stark.” The sounds slip out, too distracted and not forceful enough to even deserve to be classified as words. It isn’t the truth that he can’t bear to say, nor is it the defensive challenge that it should be. He frowns, feeling heat in his cheeks at his own inability to stay in control of himself, but there is a smirk dancing across Tony’s lips, more like he always looks, and it distracts him all over again. Smirking he can deal with. Clever words and quick biting wit he expects.

It just keeps catching him off guard every time Tony looks at him, really looks at him, with eyes too soft and says trivial phrases with a tone that hints at so much more meaning.

“A challenge, darling? You might regret that.” Tony’s voice sounds light, too bright, too much in contrast to what he’s said a few moments before. Like he is trying to regain his footing, settle back on to safe ground.

He doesn’t have a chance to reply, to figure out for himself if he will regret doing this, being alone with Tony, being in his bedroom with him. He doesn’t think he will. The time for regret has passed. Or it is still to come. It is hard to think, hard to concentrate when Tony’s hands are drifting down to his hips, fingers tracing the points and curves of the bones, touching the lines and creases in the muscle above his hips, across his stomach. Fingers trail, trace the edges and lines and tease. Tease until he wants to snap at Tony to just get on with it. Until eventually thumbs press into the insides of his thighs, too high and so sensitive he is sure he can feel every ridge and groove of Tony’s thumbprints.

Thumbs dig in, callouses and fingernails starting to hurt just a fraction before he relents and lets Tony guide his legs open.

Tony is looking at him again, lip caught between his teeth like he is trying to stop himself saying something, eyes too soft and distracting. Too alluring.

Steve has to look away.

“Tell me what you want, gorgeous, tell me what I can do for you. Any—”

“Stark.” He interrupts, word short and sharp and he means it to silence, to stop, because he doesn’t want to think about wanting. Wanting what is so close, what is staring down at him too softly, too tenderly. He shouldn’t want. Not because Tony’s a team mate, or because he’s another man. Because he’s Tony.

“—thing you want, darling.” The tone of voice, the use of the endearment, it feels more like a caress than the sweep of thumbs against the skin of his inner thighs, creeping higher and higher with each stroke. Each stroke making the itch and want and heat build more and more beneath his skin.

Tony’s smiling at him, the soft curve of lips and the creases beside his eyes, and he doesn’t realise that it’s his own voice scratching out “Kiss me,” into the air between them before the creases deepen and there’s a hint of white teeth between smiling lips.

“Of course, sweetheart, it would be my pleasure.”

The thumbs disappear from the inside of his thighs, hands sweeping up his sides and a leg slotting in between his, knocking a breath out of him that’s caught by Tony’s mouth. There’s a hand on the side of his neck, fingers pressing into his hair, steadying him and he hadn’t realised how much he needs it. The world is off kilter, lips and tongue pushing him closer and closer to the precipice. The hand against his hip, fingers curling and pressing into his skin, following the rise and fall of his hips.

Embarrassment sparks when he realises he is grinding against Tony’s thigh. He wants to stop, thinks he should stop, but the moment he stills, fingers dig into his hip, encouraging him to keep going. He does.

His chest feels tight, not enough air and too much heat, lips and tongue against his and all he can think is that no wonder people want to be with Tony, when he kisses like that, so careful and sweet, hot and wanting, like all he wants to do, is just kiss and kiss and keep kissing and touching. The leg between his presses closer, presses tighter, more friction and heat, the weight of Tony’s chest against his, bearing down on him and he’s drowning. Drowning in want and need and oh how he wants.

He’s shuddering into the touch of Tony’s hands, the fingers curling against his neck, the hand gripping at his hip and he has to touch back, but his arms feel like lead, they hardly want to move. He makes them, makes them move until his hands touch Tony’s skin, cool from the air, smooth silk over wiry muscle, arms, shoulders, back, the curve of the ribs and the line of his waist. Tony’s skin feels so smooth and delicate. Steve’s hands are too large and too rough in comparison; he doesn’t want to hurt him, but he doesn’t want to stop touching.

“Steve?” Tony’s voice whispers across the space in front of his closed eyes, gentle and worried; he doesn’t want him to worry. They’ve stopped kissing, he must have missed that, too caught up in the feel of Tony’s skin, the leg between his pressing closer, rocking forwards and back to create stimulation. He’s gasping wetly into the air between them, not knowing why, everything feels like it’s too much, and they haven’t even done anything.

He’s not some wet behind the ears virgin, he isn’t, he can’t explain why he’s acting like one, touch starved and needy, it hasn’t been that long. It hasn’t. Months, less than a year. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

“Steve, darling, tell me everything is okay.”

Open eyes and Tony’s right there, stroking the hair back from his forehead, looking at him with concern creasing his brow, the lip caught between his teeth is let go to allow a smile.

“There you are, gorgeous. Is everything okay?” Fingers touch against the side of his face, thumb dragging against his lips and he’s shuddering against Tony all over again.

“Didn’t go anywhere.” He tries to bite out the reply, but his voice is too rough, too breathless, but he doesn’t think he sounds tempting and alluring like Tony does with his voice all husky. He probably sounds pathetic.

Knuckles caress the side of his face, follow the line of his jaw; the touch too soft, like Tony’s lips when he kisses him again, the hint of alcohol still lingering on his breath. “I beg to differ, sweetheart. Now shh, don’t argue. Tell me what you want.”

What he wants? He hardly knows, can hardly work it out, but the steady thrum of _you_ , _I want you,_ whispers in his mind. He catches the words behind his teeth before they can escape, because some things just don’t warrant saying. “Sex, Stark. That’s why I came here.”

Tony’s weight shifts back, pulls away from his chest, arms bracketing his shoulders so he can look at him, amused, Steve hopes. He doesn’t mean to see the little bit of disappointment behind Tony’s lopsided grin. “Then you’ve come to the right place, gorgeous, but how do you want it? There are so many different options.”

He thinks he should ask what Tony likes, what he wants to do, but he had said anything, and a man didn’t just offer that if he didn’t mean it. And Tony had been with women before, and men, so he had to be open to a lot of options. “I want,” he closes his eyes, breathes to steady himself, and opens his eyes again, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Delightful proposition, such a way with words,” His eyes are a fraction wider than before, like it isn’t the response he expected. “Are you sure, darling?”

He nods, even as he wants to push Tony away from him and leave. It feels like Tony is laughing at him, judging him.

“Have you ever done this before?” Tony shifts back again, until he’s kneeling, straddling one of Steve’s legs, and his hands drop to caress Steve’s thighs and hips, sweeping fingers against the dips of his stomach muscles.

It’s distracting, distracting enough that he can’t think to lie, his head shaking before he has time to think about it. Tony’s hands fall still against his skin, and Steve narrows his eyes enough to glare in response. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know I want to.” He does want to, he knows that, has known that, and he wants it to be Tony, so he can get it all out of his system, so he can stop wanting.

Fingers press a little sharper, one thumb brushing along the side of his cock, the first non-incidental touch. He shudders into the feel of it, wants more, more of Tony, more touches, more attention. “Okay, gorgeous, okay, we can do that. Just let me grab a few things.”

Tony slips backwards off the bed and he tries not to reach for him to make him stay. He must make some sort of noise though, because Tony looks up at him, strokes a hand down his shin and over the top of his foot, squeezes his toes. There’s too much affection in his eyes and he wants to tell him to stop looking at him like that. Like he means something, like he matters.

Like Tony actually cares.

The grip on his toes tightens for a moment, then slips away and Tony moves up along the side of the bed, to the chest of drawers against the wall. “Do you want me to use a condom?”

There’s a beat of silence where he can’t just let himself say no.

“It’s up to you, my dear. I’m clean. There’s paperwork to prove it, if you don’t believe me, but it is a personal choice.”

He lets the silence drag a little longer, watches Tony standing by the drawer, naked and beautiful, and he tries not to think about how he’s looking better, less sick. Tries not to think about how bad he has looked.

Tony turns, smirking when he catches him looking. “Well darling?”

He frowns, realises he’s almost forgotten the question. “Not like I can catch anything anyway.”

Tony’s eyes narrow a fraction, and he rubs the heel of his hand against his sternum. It would look nervous on anyone else. But it’s Tony. He’s pretty sure Tony doesn’t know how to look nervous. “That’s a no to the condom then, is it sweetheart?”

He rolls over, huffing out a yes, because he suddenly can’t stand the fact that he’s just lying there, naked and exposed. The pillowcase is cool and soft against his flushed face, it would be easy enough to stop breathing. Smother himself. But he doesn’t. Arms up beneath the pillow, hands against cool sheets, silk, his shoulders bunching and pushing up as he lifts himself slightly.

The soft pad of footsteps and Tony is back again, fingers tracing the arch of his foot and curling around his ankle. “Darling.”

It sounds like a question, like the start of a longer sentence with a pause for dramatic effect, like an opportunity to say he has changed his mind. He doesn’t say anything.

Fingers and thumb press and massage his ankle, seeking muscle and ligaments. “You comfortable, sweetheart? There are a lot of other positions.” The thumb strokes idly along his Achilles’ tendon, “There’s a whole book on positions, if this is a little archaic for you.”

“I want yo—it like this.” _So I don’t have to look at you. So you can’t see how much I want this. Want you. If I crack and break at least you won’t see me._ “Just get on with it, Stark, a man could grow old waiting.”

The hand on his ankle squeezes tighter for a moment before it releases. “Okay, whatever you want, Captain.”

The bed dips as Tony settles into it, knees either side of one leg, hand trailing up the back of his calf, fingers dancing and tickling as Tony shuffles up the bed. He can feel his skin prickling and not for the first time he wishes that Tony was less tactile.

There’s the snick and flick of a lid opening, but Tony’s hand doesn’t move from where it’s resting on the back of his thigh, fingers flexing cool and calloused against his skin. It sparks more lightning-hot want in the pit of his stomach and it makes the anger welling up in his chest bite back. He’s not even sure who he’s angry at. He wants it to be Tony; that would be easy. If he is angry at Tony maybe he’ll stop wanting him.

It’s not Tony.

“Are you sure about this? Steve, gorgeous, there’s no shame if you change your mind.” Tony’s words are soft, careful, a touch hesitant. “You really are gorgeous like this. Spread out on my bed. But if this isn’t where you want to be, I won’t hold that against you, sweetheart. You can leave. Any time you want.”

He isn’t sure if it’s a subtle rejection or a chance to escape. Both, maybe, the latter probably. He really hopes it isn’t the former. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Tony kicks him out. The want, hot and needy inside him, would probably burn him up entirely.

“I want this.”

There is a huff behind him, and he doesn’t have to turn to know that Tony is looking a little bit sceptical. But the hand on his leg squeezes slightly, thumb sweeping across his skin, and it doesn’t feel like rejection. “As you wish.”

The words sound like they mean more, are more, than a simple affirmation, but he can’t think why. There is something he’s missing, something he’s always missing, and it just makes the anger burn a little harder. There are years missing and nothing will ever bring them back or make up for their loss.

The hand on the back of his leg is gone; the shock of cold skin left behind makes him aware of the absence. For a moment he feels a spark of panic that Tony isn’t there anymore, that he’s disappeared like so much else in Steve’s life, but he can still hear him. Hear each steady breath, the wet slick sound of lube being squeezed out of a bottle, and he knows that Tony is there and forces himself not to turn around to see him.

A hand touches his leg again, guides them apart a fraction more, before it slides up the back of his thigh. A finger, slick and questing, traces a line along his arse, resting, a pause, before slowly pressing in. He presses his face into the pillow and forgets to breathe because he wants and wants and wants and he doesn’t want to.

“Steve, darling?” Tony’s finger isn’t moving, just resting pressed inside him, hot and slick and too much, not nearly enough.

“Keep going.” He hears himself growl, desperate and a little bit animalistic, the words caught against the pillow but still obviously loud enough for Tony to hear.

A hand rubs at his back, fingers and thumb tracing his spine and it feels like Tony’s caressing his very bones. It feels comforting and he doesn’t dare let himself think that Tony might care.

_He’s just an attentive lover._

“Relax, darling. Breathe, and you have yourself a deal.” Tony’s words are soft against his skin, a scratch of facial hair and lips to the left of his spine.

He breathes, in spite himself, lungs expanding and collapsing and something inside him lets go, unclenches and he can feel Tony’s finger moving inside him, pressing smooth and gently against him. In him. It feels too much like caring, and it just makes the anger inside his chest bite harder, because he doesn’t want to want this. Doesn’t want to want Tony.

“I’m not going to break, Stark.” The words snap out, blade sharp and lethal intent. He turns his head away from the pillow, glares over his shoulder and can only see the top of Tony’s head where it’s dipped low against his back. It takes too long to recognise the frequent press of lips against the curve of his side.

Tony shifts, sitting back, all lean wiry muscle that makes him want all over again. He meets his eye and there’s something too soft about the look in his eyes, too soft and too beautiful that it is a complete juxtaposition to the fact he’s knuckle deep inside him. Tony’s hand sweeps down his back again, caressing bone and sinew and peeling him open and leaving him bare.

“Doesn’t mean I have to test that.” Head tilts to the side, hair falling across his forehead and for the first time all evening, maybe ever, Tony looks uncertain. He watches, watches and watches until Steve feels like he’s going to crawl right out of his skin if he doesn’t break eye contact.

“Unless you want me to, darling?”

He has to look away then. Can’t stand the expression in Tony’s eyes, a mixture of hunger and uncertainty and pure want. Has to look away because he can’t risk Tony seeing the mirroring expression in his eyes. He wants, wants and wants. Needs. He thinks he could beg Tony to. To break him, destroy him like he’d said.

He thinks maybe Tony wants him to beg.

He’s not sure how he feels about that.

“Hey, gorgeous,” The hand on his back is gone, then touches him again, the back of his head, fingers stroking through his hair. Slipping to touch his jaw, turning his face back away from the pillow.

He feels Tony lean forward again, the warmth of his skin against his back, Lips against his ear, cheekbone, jaw, mouth, soft and slow, careful even as the finger inside him starts moving again. Gentle. Slow. Infuriating. If he didn’t feel half-drunk off of the warm press of Tony against him and each slow kiss he thinks he would protest.

“Steve, sweetheart,” Tony’s lips whisper against the corner of his mouth, all warm breath and soft tone. “You can ask for anything you want. Anything. But I’m not going to make you do something you don’t want. I don’t want to do anything you don’t like. If I do anything you don’t like, don’t love, then you need to tell me. So we can stop. You just need to talk to me.”

He isn’t good at talking, not about how he feels or what he wants, it is easier to say nothing and hope that people just get it. He doesn’t know if he can talk about this, can tell Tony what he wants. He can’t tell Tony that he wants him. That he doesn’t want to.

“I want this. I—” It’s a start, words feeling hard and solid in his throat, but Tony is still right there, not moving away, lips and facial hair against the side of his face. “I like this.”

For a moment he thinks that Tony is going to ask for clarification on what this is, but there is some small mercy in the world that keeps him silent. The weight and warmth shifts off of his back, Tony’s hand against the bed pushing him back up again and he doesn’t whimper at the loss. He doesn’t.

A hand settles on his hip. It feels like reassurance. Careful touch and the slow movement of the finger inside him and he wants to tell Tony to hurry up but he doesn’t trust his own words anymore.

Both of Tony’s hands disappear, skin left cold, feeling too empty and open and he pushes his face into the pillow to cover up the sound of his inhale.

“You okay, darling?”

He nods, face hot against the pillow. It’s enough to get Tony’s hands back again, a touch on his hip, teasing touches before a slicker, cooler, thicker push back inside him. It knocks the air out of his throat, heavy with pleasure. It makes him feel hot all over, his cock twitching were its pressed between his body and the sheets, hard and hot and wanting. Tony’s fingers inside him feel almost like too much, not nearly enough, stretching and slick. Calloused fingertips but so careful and caring, each movement in time with whatever the man is saying, it’s impossible to focus on the words. His tone is soft, low, melting into his body and making him relax muscles that he didn’t even know were still tense.

The hand on his hip slides up his side, smooths along the curve of his ribs before the thumb slots along his spine. Presses him back down, encouraging him to settle back against the sheets. Belatedly Steve realises that he had been pushing himself up, pushing back on to Tony’s fingers, searching for more.

“Easy, darling, you just relax and let me take care of you.”

He doesn’t need taking care of. He thinks it, should say it, but the words are lost somewhere in the sound of his uneven breathing. He doesn’t need taking care of. Tony does. He looks after Tony. Has. Will again. Even if he doesn’t want to think about Tony being sick. He should be taking care of Tony. But this is what he wants. This is what he asked for.

_I asked for it._ He asked when he shouldn’t have. He went willingly to Tony’s bed even though he’d told himself over and over that he never would. He can’t explain why he did, where his resolve went. _I wanted this, wanted it until I couldn’t stand not to have it anymore._

He shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t have given in. Shouldn’t want Tony to touch him, kiss him. Fuck him. Destroy him. Pull him apart at the seams until there was nothing left.

But he does.

“‘m not useless, Stark.” It is a protest, weak, but it feels necessary.

There’s a laugh, something like a breathless chuckle, and then the touch of Tony’s lips against his spine. A touch that is becoming unsettlingly familiar. “I never said you were, darling, but you asked me for something. And never let it be said that I don’t deliver.”

It hurts more than it should, to know that Tony is only doing this because he had asked. To think that Tony wouldn’t want him if he hadn’t propositioned him.

“Sweetheart?”

Tony sounds worried, suddenly, carefully, still; fingers, hands, lips, nothing moving expect the breath against his back, and he knows it’s because his whole body has tensed up. Shoulders rigid, neck stiff and face pressing so hard into the pillow he’s not even sure he’s breathing anymore. Trying to squash the shame back down. He doesn’t want to want Tony, so why should he care if Tony doesn’t want him in return?

“I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I? Whatever you’re thinking, Steve, please stop. You are gorgeous. If you think I’m not interested, I promise you I am. Very much so.” Tony’s hand slides across his back, down his side, pushes between the bed and his chest. He can feel Tony’s weight against his back, the arm around his front. It feels safe enough that he lets himself breathe again, lets his body relax. Tony’s hugging him, holding him, and that doesn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d do for someone who didn’t mean something to him.

“I’m glad you’re here, Steve. But only if you are too.”

He blames the hint of uncertainty in Tony’s voice for the answer he gives. But he knows the fact that Tony is hugging him is the real cause for what he says. He turns his head, enough that he can see Tony, taking in the softness and concern in his eyes. “I want you.”

He wants to take the words back, even if they are the truth. He never meant to say them. But Tony’s eyes grow warm and he’s smiling and Steve doesn’t want to take that away.

Tony’s smile grows, and he moves closer, kisses his shoulder, thumb rubbing against the skin of his chest. “I want you too, darling.”

He huffs, tries not to smile is response. Shifts his hips, enough to feel Tony’s fingers shift inside him, and the hard line of his cock against the back of his thigh. His body feels warm all over, borrowing Tony’s warmth and he thinks that he’ll forget what it was like ever to be cold. He doesn’t want to be cold ever again. The words whisper out, before he can stop them. “Like this.”

Another kiss on his shoulder and the arm around his chest tightens before it starts to slide away, Tony’s heat and weight lifting away from him. “It’s okay, darling, just let me make this good for you. Let me make you feel good.”

He misses the feeling of Tony against his back, mourns it, wants to protest. He doesn’t, bites his lip so he won’t. It doesn’t stop the groan that works its way out of his throat. Tony’s fingers dragging out of him, the way he smooths his hand down his back, it makes his whole body shudder. He can’t help, can’t stop the reaction. He knows he’s breathing too hard, gasping wetly against the pillow, can’t catch his breath. He feels hot and cold at the same time, slick and open, empty, he doesn’t want to think about how he must look.

Tony’s fingers press back into him, thicker, wider, slicker. Stretching him, opening him up and it just makes him want, want, want and want more. It’s almost too much. Not enough. He needs more. Doesn’t know if he can handle more, but doesn’t want to stop. Then it’s something else, Tony’s fingers pressing, sparking lightning hot want and pleasure. It catches him off guard, his throat vapour locks, clicks and he can’t swallow, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.

“You truly are gorgeous.” Tony’s murmuring words behind him, voice soft and pleased and sounding miles away. “You respond so well. So sensitive, darling. I want to keep you here forever, see just how sensitive you are.”

_Forever_. He tries to ignore the ache in his chest. Tries not to think about how nice it would be, to stay with Tony, for him to mean it. But they don’t get to have nice. They don’t get forever. Not him, not any of the Ultimates. Especially not Tony. “You talk too much, Stark. Too much talk and not enough action.”

He’s not sure where the words came from, how he found the energy or the brain power to say them. They get a reaction though. Tony’s hand pressing down against his back, fingers pushing into him again, harder, less careful, aimed for that spot, but so, so good.

“Clearly I’m neglecting my duties if you still have the capacity to talk, Captain. But I would have been disappointed if you weren’t as sassy in bed as you are out of it.” There’s a smile in Tony’s voice, he imagines he looks pleased with himself. Irritating as the idea is, he isn’t in a position to argue.

He doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t seem like there is anything to say that hasn’t been said already, so he pushes back. Pushes back against the hand along his spine, against the fingers inside him. There’s a somewhat strangled sound of pleasure and with belated embarrassment he realises that it came from him.

“Now darling, I think you’re just being deliberately impatient.” It’s a purr, soft and low, a sucker punch of desire in the pit of his stomach. Tony’s hand stroking down to his lower back, thumb digging into the hollow of his spine and he can’t help the sound that tumbles out of his throat, a desperate, needy whine.

He feels hot with shame, tries to bury his face further against the pillow. But Tony keeps pressing his thumb into that place, the fingers inside him moving quicker and harder and the pleasure keeps sparking higher and higher. He’s not sure when he started rocking between pressing back onto those fingers and rutting against the sheets, movement restricted by Tony’s weight against the back of one thigh. He can’t stop, it doesn’t matter how embarrassing it is. He’s so close, coiling heat in his stomach, balls drawing tight, everything growing tense. He has to turn his head to the side because he can’t breathe.

“It’s okay, darling, let go.” Tony’s talking, sounds a million miles away but so close, too close. “Will you come for me?”

He does.

He can’t not. Can’t stop himself, it’s too much. Tony’s voice in his ear, hand on his back, fingers inside him, they punch the orgasm out of him. He comes, rutting against Tony’s silk sheets and for a moment he can’t even feel ashamed.

Everything feels hazy in the aftermath, light. He knows Tony is there, can hear his voice but not the words he’s saying. Hands on his shoulder and hip encourage him to roll onto his side; he goes, willingly, things slowly coming back into focus. Tony’s at his back, shifting him across the bed, away from the damp stained sheets.

The embarrassment creeps in then, making his face hot, stomach clench in an unpleasant way, and he’s apologising before he can even think too much about it. “‘m sorry.”

The hand on his shoulder rubs down his arm and tightens comfortingly around his bicep. “No, darling, don’t apologise. You were gorgeous. Are gorgeous. It was lovely, seeing you let go like that.”

He blinks his eyes open, lets them adjust to the low light of the room. Tony is leaning over enough that he can see him without having to turn his head, a soft smile playing on his lips, eyes alight and there’s colour in his cheeks. He really is beautiful, there is no denying that.

And he hasn’t stopped wanting him. It’s still there, burning inside him, wanting, wanting, wanting, but the anger is biting back a little less viciously. He tries to breathe around the feeling, through it, the knowledge that what they’ve done so far hasn’t made the want quiet down or go away. He should leave, leave before he does something to make it worse, but Tony actually looks happy, genuinely happy, and the hands on his hip and arm keep rubbing softly against his skin. Warm, careful, callouses scraping ever so slightly, making the want itch and prickle beneath his skin, sparking arousal. He feels his cock twitch, still half hard, and knows that it won’t take much.

“How do you feel, darling?” Tony sounds slightly hesitant, his hand moving away from his bicep to trail through Steve’s hair softly. “Do you feel okay? Was that good for you, sweetheart?”

“Was good, really good. Thank you.” It seems polite, to thank Tony, he has just come all over the man’s sheets, after all. 

“You’re welcome, darling.” The smile turns amused, but the fingers in his hair don’t stop. “Do you want to keep going, or have you had enough?”

He narrows his eyes, tries to ignore the thought that maybe Tony doesn’t want him anymore, wants him to leave, breathes a little harder to make the feeling go away. “Didn’t come here for just your fingers, Stark. Besides, s’posed to be a two way street, I’m not the sort of guy who just gets off and leaves his partner wanting.”

He gets a smirk in response as Tony shifts on the bed, arms bracketing him front and back and chest pressing against his shoulder blade. “Such a charmer, Captain. With words like that how does anyone ever resist you?”

Despite what Tony says, he can feel the hard line of his erection against his thigh, and it doesn’t really matter what Tony is saying, because it feels like he still wants him. “You couldn’t.”

“No, I couldn’t.” Tony agrees, leaning harder against his shoulder, head dipping down and his lips touching the side of his mouth. “You truly are delightful, Steve Rogers.”

“Not bad yourself, Stark.” He turns his head enough to kiss Tony, kiss him back, because it’s okay as long as Tony starts it. Loses himself in kissing Tony, because Tony kisses so, so well, lips, tongue, the occasional scrape of teeth. Excitement rolls through him, arousal building on top of what hadn’t really been sated before. He’s hard again, it’s a little embarrassing, feels a little greedy, but Tony’s hand shifts from the bed to trace patterns on his chest, stomach, the point of his hip, creeping lower and closer until his fingers curl around him, light and teasing.

Tony draws back, enough that their lips aren’t touching anymore, but not far at all. They’re breathing each other’s air, it’s intoxicating. He wishes it wasn’t, wishes that it didn’t make him crave Tony even more, want to kiss him again, want everything that he was willing to give him. But he keeps breathing, dragging air that tastes like Tony into his lungs and trying to hold it as long as possible.

“Are you comfortable, darling?” Tony’s question makes him open his eyes again, and he sees Tony’s face too close and lips kiss red. “Do you want to move?”

He doesn’t say it, doesn’t want to move. He wants Tony how he was before, one arm around his chest and his weight against his back. Wants Tony pressing him to the bed and keeping him there, pinning him down and taking what he wants. He wants that but he can’t say that. Can’t admit that. “I’m good.”

He settles back on his front, readjusts his arms beneath the pillow. To make a point. Tony’s hand leaves his cock, settles on the back of his thigh, and pushes his leg out and up, until his knee is pressing into the bed, taking more weight and cocking his hips so one is off of the bed. He feels open and exposed like this, shivers from it, but it is what he wants, what he asked for.

Tony’s hand trails up the back of his leg, across his arse, one fingertip teasing the rim of his hole. Still slick, still open. He draws in a breath, too quick, feels it shudder in his chest. The mattress shifts as Tony moves, not much, his other hand returning to the small of Steve’s back, thumb pressing into the groove of his spine and he can’t stop the full body shudder or the desperate sort of sound that escapes his throat.

He feels Tony’s lips next to his thumb, a gentle kiss counterpoint to the strength of his hand. “You like that, don’t you? This spot right here. Who would have known it could be so sensitive.”

He pushes his face against the pillow to try and counteract the blush, but it has long since soaked up his body heat. “Still talking too much, Stark.” He mumbles into the fabric, sounding fonder than he intends to.

He can feel Tony’s lips smile against his back, pressing another kiss, the slightest touch of his tongue. “It’s one of my charms, darling.”

He doesn’t argue. Even for all the times that he’s wished Tony would shut up, there have been a lot of times when he wished he’d talk more. The sound of his voice is intoxicating, the terms of endearment, the clever things he says, they’ve never done anything but make him want Tony all the more.

He exhales loudly when Tony’s hands and lips slip away, tries to ignore the cold that is left behind. There’s the snick and flip sound of the bottle being opened, the squelch of lube being poured out and then Tony’s fingers are pressing back into him, cool and wet, applying more slick, keeping him open.

“Steve, darling?” Tony sounds cautious enough that he draws his face away from the pillow, strains his neck to look at him. There’s a small smile dancing across Tony’s lips, his eyes impossibly warm. “Give me your hand?”

He draws his hand out from under the pillow, brings his elbow down until his hand is level with his shoulder and Tony reaches to close his hand over the back of it, wrapping his fingers around to press against his palm. He relaxes back into the pillow, hooks his fingers around Tony’s to hold them there, distracted for a moment in the difference of their skin tone.

Tony’s fingers slip back out of him and he feels him move again, until he’s pressed against him, leg against his, hips holding him down, the warmth of his chest not quite touching his back, holding himself up just slightly.

Tony kisses the back of his shoulder, the back of his neck, nuzzles his nose into his hair, breath warm against his skin. “If anything is wrong, Steve, if you don’t like this, if it hurts or is too uncomfortable, or of you just don’t like it, all you need to do say so, and we’ll stop.” He presses his fingers against his palm, comforting.

He nods in response, strokes his thumb against Tony’s fingers, an offer of reassurance he can’t find words for. He can feel Tony, everywhere, feel Tony pushing into him. Hotter, thicker, more than his fingers had been. The insistent push and slide, stretch, not painful, but nearly too much. Not enough. He can’t breathe, has forgotten how, trying desperately not to tense up, not to crush Tony’s hand, not to make a noise that could be interpreted to be bad because he doesn’t want to stop.

Tony stops moving, body trembling with the effort of it, words whispering against the back of his neck that are nothing more than sounds. He wants him to keep going, a whine sliding out of his throat in protest, and he inhales, needs to air to talk. Breathing makes him feel a little dizzy, gasping, wet against the pillow, but something lets go in him, tension slipping away and his body relaxes. Lets Tony keep pushing inside him, so warm, solid, the weight of him against his back and it feels so, so good. Too good. Nearly overwhelming. He doesn’t want it to stop.

“Talk to me, darling. Are you okay?” Tony’s words, concern, settle into his mind, the world starting to pull back into focus.

“‘m good. Feels—” He swallows, feels his body trembling ever so slightly, tries to relax a little more, to think of a way to describe how he feels and comes up short. “Good. Feels really good.”

Tony’s lips smirk against the back of his neck, pressing harder to kiss him there. He shifts his hips, marginally, barely, but it sparks pleasure through Steve’s body, makes him moan. Tony makes a sound, it’s smug, pleased, and he can’t be embarrassed by the noises he’s making.  He thinks, hopes, that Tony feels good too, worries that maybe he doesn’t.

“You feel wonderful, darling.” Tony whispers, like he knows what he’s thinking. He squeezes his hand tight for a moment before letting go, drawing his hand away, too quick for Steve to try and catch it. There isn’t time to protest though, Tony’s arm is sliding beneath his chest, his weight settling against his back. Holding him, pinning him down, and it’s everything he wants.

It seems like forever that they stay like that, Tony leaning against his back, hand over his heart, and Steve’s sure that he must be able to feel how erratically it is beating. Everything feels off kilter, confusing, he isn’t sure if he feels vulnerable or safe, there is too much conflict. He tries breathing, focusing on the warmth Tony’s sharing with him, the feel of Tony’s lips against the back of his neck, trailing across his shoulder. He focuses on Tony, he wants Tony. Still. Wants him so, so much and he’s right there, behind him, in him and now that he has what he wants he doesn’t know how to cope.

Tony shifts, ever so slightly, hips shifting back, drawing out, not far, but he can feel the heat and drag. He pauses, thumb and fingers rubbing against his chest, comforting. The push back in is slow, sensual, feels like it lasts forever and he’s gasping out small noises by the time Tony stills again. Lips press behind his ear, breath panting against his skin, and it feels better to know that he isn’t the only one affected.

“You’re so good, darling,” Words whisper against his hair, lips and nose nuzzling, affectionate, tactile, and he wants it like that. “How are you feeling?”

His throat clicks, he can’t get any words to work, swallows, but it doesn’t help unjumble the thoughts inside his head, the want that isn’t abating at all. He can’t talk, so he moves his arm, tucks it beneath his chest, ignores how uncomfortable it is. Closes his hand over the back of Tony’s. Holds it to his chest, presses it there, slotting his fingers between Tony’s. Wants to keep him there as long as possible. Wants him to know that.

It must convey the right message. He feels Tony press another kiss to the back of his neck, hears the sound of his voice as he whispers something, sweet and comforting, but he can’t keep track. Tony starts moving again, hips thrust with more force than before, but still slow, careful. Each drag out, each push back in, it catches the breath in his lungs, a slender edge of something not quite pain. It feels like too much, not enough, like he needs more. He feels hot and slick, open, filled, and he can’t help the noises he’s trying to muffle against the pillow.

Tony’s breath, lips and words are hot against his skin, the arm around his chest tight, holding him close, holding him there. He loses track of how much time passes, of everything, the world has reduced just down to him and Tony and Tony’s silk sheets. Everything feels like it is too much, the rhythm that Tony sets, slow, steady, caring and careful. It isn’t what he expected, he isn’t sure what he expected, but this isn’t fucking.

He isn’t sure that he wants to put a name to it.

“You’re so sweet, darling.” Tony whispers against his neck, lips dragging across his skin and he isn’t even sure he’s supposed to hear it. “So perfect.”

He’s not sure how to respond, not sure he’s meant to. It feels like there is more he should be doing, so he rocks back, braces himself with his free arm and knees and pushes back against Tony. Rocks into his thrust. Tony’s moan reverberates through his spine, hot against the back of his neck, and there’s a jolt of satisfaction, knowing that he is responsible for that. He does it again, rocks back, pushes into Tony’s next thrust, clenches down as he does and he feels Tony jerk, shudder, the hand against his chest presses tighter.

“Oh, darling,” Tony’s voice is hot between his shoulder blades, touching his spine. His words are loose, sloppy around the edges, and he isn’t sure if he’s proud that it’s his doing, or disbelieving that Tony can still talk. “You feel amazing, so tight, so good for me. Keep doing that, darling.”

He does. Because Tony asked. Because he doesn’t know what else to do. Because it feels good to be doing something, not to just be lying there like a hunk of meat and doing nothing. He keeps rocking back, pushing back, until his muscles ache from it, until he isn’t sure whose body is trembling anymore, until everything feels too hot, too slick, too tight and he’s panting into the pillow.

His cock feels too sensitive, raw, rubbing against the sheets, but it isn’t enough to stop him, doesn’t stop him from pushing back to meet Tony’s thrusts, each movement ratcheting up his arousal. It’s nearly unbearable, nearly too much, his balls drawn tight, breath catching in his lungs. It catches him by surprise; he’s coming into Tony’s sheets for a second time and he isn’t prepared for it, can’t breathe, can’t stop the noises he’s making, can’t stop the way his body just keeps shuddering with it.

He’s vaguely aware that Tony is murmuring things against his back, something calming. The arm around his chest holds him tight. Holds him through it, until he can breathe again. Until he falls still and realises that Tony has stopped moving at some point.

“Perfect, darling, so perfect, so beautiful.” Tony is kissing the back of his neck, his voice soothing. “Can I keep going, Steve? Do you feel alright for me to keep going?”

He wants that, wants Tony to keep going, to get his own pleasure. To use him until he reaches his own climax and is satisfied. He feels open and loose, wrung out, listless, but not so much he wants to stop. He nods, squeezes the hand against his heart, works his tongue and throat until there are words available. “Please. I want you to.”

He feels Tony start to move again, slowly, gently, the hand on his chest holding him tight and his breath hot and loud against his neck. He can’t push back into the slow thrusts anymore, can’t find the energy, feels too relaxed and boneless. But he clenches down, like he did before, feels Tony shudder against him, his breath hitch, and it feels like he’s doing something right. He keeps doing it, with each slide out and push back in, his own cock jerking and pulsing occasionally, hopeful, trying to get hard again but he really doesn’t think he has it in him. Tony’s hand scrabbles against his chest, calloused fingertips scraping over his heart and his hips jerk a bit harder, each thrust a bit more powerful than the last, until Tony stops breathing, pushing into him as hard as he can.

He can hear him gasping, small cries of pleasure muffled against his back, feel him pushing inside him, coming and coming, the full weight of his body collapsing against this back, pinning him to the bed. Pressing him into the damp spot he created on the sheets and holding him there so he can’t do anything but let Tony come inside him, shuddering and hips twitching until he eventually stills, chest heaving and breath damp against his spine.

The arm around him loosens, but doesn’t let go, thumb and fingers stroking soothing circles into his skin. They stay like that, seconds, minutes, hours, he doesn’t know. Even with Tony’s weight against him, everything feels soft, floaty, far away. He hears Tony’s breathing even out, feels his own heart slow back to normal. Tony’s lips keep pressing softly against his spine, and for the first time he wishes he was facing the other way so he could kiss him back, while they are both relaxed and boneless, while the real world is so far away and nothing really matters.

It doesn’t last.

It was never going to.

Tony moves, not away from him, but to roll them both to the side, until he isn’t lying in his own come, but he can still feel Tony inside him, still so full, almost too full. Then he can feel Tony pulling out of him, drawing away, sweat cooling too rapidly on his back, making him shiver. He’s too aware that he’s responsible for the noise, sudden and a little too high, a whine of loss, when Tony shifts across the bed, away from him. He lets himself be rolled over onto his back, feels loose and empty, too open, feels Tony’s semen leak out of him, slick and hot between his arse cheeks.

Tony’s hand is still on his chest, probably only because he’s holding it there, hasn’t let go yet, doesn’t want to. He should, knows it, feels it, but he doesn’t want to. Just like he doesn’t want to open his eyes, to face the fact that this is very real and very over. He went to bed with Tony Stark and it doesn’t matter which way he looks at it, it was always going to be a bad idea. It just took until it was over for his to really think about it. Because this is what Tony does, he sleeps with people and doesn’t mind when they leave, or when he leaves. Casual. Over. And he’s not sure that he’s going to be okay with that. It doesn’t feel like he got anything out of his system, because he wants Tony. Still. Again.

But the hand on his chest, above his heart, is still there, thumb rubbing against his skin, and he can feel Tony’s breath, hot against his shoulder. He’s not pulling away. Not kicking him out of bed.

He feels Tony settle closer beside him, chest against his arm, knee touching his thigh, toes against his calf, his other hand in his hair. Close, present, and it’s enough that he cracks open one eye, just enough to see Tony through the haze of his lashes. Tony’s smiling, softly, not the sort of smile that is ever there when other people are watching. He dips his head, presses lips to his shoulder. It’s not really a kiss, just a touch, and he doesn’t pull away before he talks.

“How are you, darling?”

He doesn’t answer, not right away, flexes his fingers against Tony’s hand, but doesn’t let go. He lets his eye close again, shifts a little bit so he’s facing Tony a fraction. More semen trickles out of him, a sensation that is weird and a marginally unsettling. He clamps his thighs together, slick and hot and a little tender, tries to hold it in. It feels stupidly sentimental, irrational to want to keep Tony’s come inside him, but he doesn’t relax.

Tony’s lips press against his collar bone, fingernails scrape lightly against his scalp and he knows that he hasn’t answered yet. Isn’t really sure how to answer. He still feels a little soft and fuzzy around the edges, still a little floaty, and he thinks two orgasms so close together has made him stupid.

He opens his eyes, watches Tony in the low light, the creases by his eyes and the faint smile on his lips, something far too affectionate in his gaze. “I’m good.” He’s not sure what else to say, and it’s not a lie, he does feel good. Hasn’t felt this good on a long time. He’s just waiting for the moment when reality catches up with them both and Tony starts to want him to leave. “You?”

Tony leans closer, kisses his lips, soft and chaste, the hint of a smile. “I’m good. Do you feel okay? Not sore at all?”

He shakes his head, lets his eyes close again. He still feels boneless, relaxed, like he could fall asleep if he let himself. It is warm in Tony’s room, the bed too comfortable, and Tony is still right there, warm and solid and he thinks it would be so easy just to reach out and wrap an arm around him, keep him there. “I’m fine, Tony,” He whispers it, against Tony’s lips, because he hasn’t moved far, lets his lips linger enough, something that could be a kiss if he let it. “I feel good. Thank you.”

The hand in his hair stills for a moment, and he thinks he might have said the wrong thing. Tony kisses him, a bit harder, a bit longer, then starts the draw away from him. “You’re very welcome, darling, it was my pleasure.” There’s silence for a moment. Tony’s hand is still against his chest, but the rest of him is too far away to feel. “Do you want a shower?”

He doesn’t want to leave Tony’s bed. The illusion will shatter when he does, the illusion that he could belong here, if Tony let him stay, that it could be more than just one night, if he let himself ask for more. He doesn’t ask, but he does shake his head, tightens his grip on Tony’s hand without even meaning to.

There is the sweep of a thumb against his chest, and then the slight tug of Tony trying to extract his hand. “Let me get us cleaned up then. Don’t want you getting uncomfortable.”

He lets go, because there is no excuse to keep holding Tony there, opens his eyes as the bed shifts as Tony climbs off of it. He watches Tony, all gold skin and lithe muscle, cross the bedroom and disappears through a door. The light clicks on inside the room, illuminating a bathroom and spilling out into the bedroom. He hears water running, tries to find the energy to move, but he’s still lying there on the bed when Tony steps back through the door. He leaves the light on, silhouetted against it as he walks back to the bed.

The cloth is soft, warm and damp when it touches his chest, drags down his stomach. He lets Tony wipe him down, tries to ignore how fond his expression is, until his free hand touches Steve’s legs, fingers tracing the line where his thighs are pressed together, pushing gently against his left leg, encouraging them to spread. He feels suddenly vulnerable, suddenly cold, something heavy settling in his stomach and he can’t bear the idea of Tony taking care of him and acting like he actually matters. He takes the cloth from Tony’s hand, rough enough that Tony jerks back a fraction, fond expression suddenly concerned. He looks away, closes his eyes, doesn’t want to see the edge of hurt in Tony’s unguarded gaze, and wipes himself down. Cleans between his own thighs, catching the cloth against sensitive skin, grits his teeth against how tender he feels and wipes away the lube and traces of Tony left behind.

“Steve?” There is a tentative touch to his knee, fingertips barely brushing his skin and he looks at Tony, opens his eyes and sees the uncertainty and concern.

He holds the cloth limply in one hand, doesn’t want to just put it on the bed, despite the mess he’s already made of the sheets. He wonders briefly if he should offer to change the bed for Tony, to clean up his mess, but Tony is taking the cloth out of his hand, wiping himself clean with it, all without breaking eye contact. He looks away, doesn’t know what to do with the way Tony is looking at him, the sudden cold that has taken over his body again, or the itchy feeling beneath his skin that is telling him he should leave. Leave before Tony asks him to go. It’s going to happen. He’ll overstay his welcome and Tony will want him to leave, because this was always just going to be sex. A once off thing. Tony doesn’t want him. Not the same way he wants Tony. The same way he _stills_ wants him.

He feels Tony’s hand settle more firmly on his knee, then the tickly brush of facial hair and the chapped feel of his lips, pressing against the top of his knee. It’s ridiculous, kissing his knee; it’s not a move that makes sense. It’s enough to make him look at Tony again, the curve of his shoulders and neck, the way he’s leaning over, all grace and beauty.

“Is there—” Tony stops, looking up at him through his lashes, resting his chin against his knee. “Steve, darling, would you tell me if something was wrong?”

It’s an odd question, feels weird, dangerously close to being deep and meaningful, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. He sits up, swings his legs off the side of the bed, leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. It’s callous, to just dislodge Tony the way he did, but it makes him feel less vulnerable. There’s the faint trace of fingers against his spine, thumb brushing over that spot again. It makes his breath catch in his chest. But it isn’t enough to distract him from the question that Tony asked.

He still doesn’t know how to answer. It scares him that he might actually want to be honest with Tony, might want to tell him that he still wants him. Wants more. Doesn’t want to leave. But he can’t have those things, he can’t want Tony. Doesn’t want to want him.

The bed shifts, the hand against his back presses harder for a moment before it disappears. There’s the quick brush of lips against his shoulder and Tony slides off the bed and walks back to the bathroom. He half expects some sort of scathing comment about his silence, for Tony to press the matter, but he’s relieved that he doesn’t.

He hears the water running again, takes the chance to reach for the clothes he discarded earlier. He’s wearing briefs and is part way through pulling his undershirt on over his head when he hears the water stop and the bathroom light click off. He pulls the shirt down, drags it over his chest until he’s covered and feeling less exposed than he has all night.

Tony stands leaning against the bathroom doorframe, head resting against the wood, one arm over his chest, hand on the opposite shoulder. He’s wearing his red robe; sash tied loosely around his waist, like an afterthought, and the expression on his face is unreadable.

“Are you leaving?”

He doesn’t answer, looks back at the clothes on the bed, but doesn’t reach for another item. The silence drags out long enough that he finds himself listening to Tony’s breathing, matching his own to it, and he makes himself talk just to avoid thinking about it. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

He hears a soft sigh, probably isn’t meant to hear it, and looks back at Tony. He hasn’t moved, but he looks tired. So, so tired, more worn out than he should. There’s a stab of guilt, because he shouldn’t have asked Tony for the night when it is so clear the man needs sleep. He should have left him alone.

But he hadn’t.

He had rocked up on Tony’s doorstep and asked to be fucked and is left struggling to know how to act in the aftermath.

Tony squints at him, the arm over his chest tightening, and then he looks away from Steve, down to his clothes, to the bedroom door and then slowly back up to his face. “You don’t have to go.”

His chest feels warm, can feel it spreading into his cheeks, and he can’t breathe past the tightness in his throat. It isn’t an offer to stay. Not really. It isn’t Tony asking him to stay, wanting him to stay.

But he isn’t telling him to leave either.

Even if he stays the night it doesn’t mean anything.

His fingers clench around the bottom of his shirt, tug at the fabric and he wishes he could think of something clever and confident to say. Something that won’t show how uncertain he is about the whole situation. He feels his jaw wobble, clenches his teeth tight and looks away from Tony again. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

Footsteps cross the room, soft, slow, and then Tony’s hand is on the side of his face, turns him back around until they are facing one another again. He looks even more tired this close, but his eyes are bright despite the dark smudges beneath them. Tony smiles, most of it in his eyes, too warm, too affectionate, but Steve can’t make himself turn away again. He relaxes the grip on his shirt, lets one hand reach up and close around Tony’s wrist. Holds the hand against his face, thumb stroking over the fluttery pulse on the inside of Tony’s wrist.

Tony smiles a little wider, he looks pleased, like he thinks he might have won already. “You are never a bother, darling.” He leans closer, kisses the corner of his mouth with a smile. “You’re more than welcome to stay.”

He turns enough that he can kiss Tony in return, harder, and it’s meant to be an acceptance, acknowledgement of the offer. It isn’t. It doesn’t replace words that he should say. It doesn’t excuse the words he does say. “Do you want me to stay, or is this some sort of modern hospitality that dictates you can’t kick out one night stands?”

Tony draws back, frowning, the smile gone from his eyes, but his hand only drops as far as Steve’s shoulder and he doesn’t step back. The frown shifts into something more searching. “Is that what this is, Captain?”

The title sounds wrong, even with Tony’s carefully casual tone. The tone of a man who doesn’t want to hurt or be hurt and is trying not to judge.

He swallows, feels like he’s balancing precariously on the edge, not sure which way he wants to fall. Which way he can fall. He wants to pull away, put more space between them. Wants to be able to look anywhere but back at Tony’s level gaze, except he can’t make himself look away. “Isn’t it?”

There’s something fragile about the words, his own voice, and it sparks more anger in his chest, where he thought it had burnt out. Makes him step back, hold Tony’s hand away from his shoulder before letting it drop. Tony reaches for him again, and for one terrifying wanting moment he thinks that Tony might hug him. He wants him to. He wishes he did. Wishes he hadn’t stepped away.

Wishes he was strong enough to just go after what he wants.

But he isn’t.

He wants Tony and can barely even admit it to himself. Because Tony is Tony. He’s more than just a team mate, he isn’t just another man, he’s brilliant and flawed, and it’s never enough to make him stop wanting.

Tony’s body shifts. There’s a tension about it, and even in only a robe he’s every bit the business man he is in a suit. He’s not looking at him so fondly anymore, there’s something guarded about his expression and he thinks, maybe, he’s pushed too hard and Tony isn’t just going to come back to try again.

“If that is all this was to you, if all you wanted was one night, then, by all means, darling, leave whenever you want.” Tony stops talking, squints at him again, trying to gauge his reaction, then he relaxes a bit, his expression more open, even a fraction hopeful. “But, it doesn’t have to be. This can be whatever you want it to be, Steve.”

Whatever he wants. It sounds like a dangerous offer. He rubs his face and drags his hands back through his hair to try and get his expression and thoughts in check. He could just tell the truth, that he came there to try and get Tony out of his system and it hasn’t worked. He could tell the truth, about wanting Tony, wanting more, wanting whatever he is willing to give. But the words all stick in his throat and he can’t ignore the fact that Tony isn’t saying what he wants.

“What about you? What do you want?”

Tony smiles, self-deprecating, “Oh, you know me, darling, I’m easy.”

It hurts, hurts because Tony can’t see what he does, can’t see his own worth. He wants to make him see it, but he’s probably the worst person for the job. He can’t look at that smile any longer, the hurt behind it, so he turns away, towards the window and leans against the glass. It’s cold, saps the heat out of his body and he can’t help but remember how warm Tony made him feel. How he thought he might never be cold again. He doesn’t think he wants to just walk away from that.

“You shouldn’t be.” He’s not sure what he’s trying to say, maybe Tony isn’t either because he doesn’t get a reply. He talks against the glass, breath fogging the window, ignores how his jaw wobbles when he tries to speak. “I don’t know what this is, Tony. I don’t know what I want it to be. I don’t want it to end now. I want you. But I can’t.”

He can’t, because it’s Tony.

And Tony’s dying.  

He feels the air move, the prickle of body heat through his shirt as Tony steps closer. He thinks he almost feels Tony reach out to touch him, but he never makes contact. The silence stretches out until he can’t handle it anymore, until he turns and finds Tony standing there, angled slightly away from him and staring blankly out the window. He thinks Tony understands. 

He reaches out before he can stop himself, hand on the back of Tony’s head, fingers in his hair, so soft. He can feel the dips and contours of Tony’s skull. He can’t feel the tumour. It doesn’t change the fact that he knows it’s there. Knows that it’s just a time bomb waiting to go off.

Tony stills under his touch, body tense, then it seeps out of him, shoulders hunching slightly. Turning towards him, Tony lifts his gaze to meet his, eyes sad and knowing. He knows, Tony knows. They both know that the other knows, and he wishes he doesn’t.

Because all he can think, the only thought consuming all of his brain, the words he thinks he should say, but knows he won’t. _You’re going to die. You’re going to die and leave me behind and I don’t know if I can bear to lose you too. You will destroy me. Because I can’t survive missing you._


	2. Part Two – A Deep Slow Panic

Steve wakes up later than usual; he can tell by the lethargy in his body, trying to tug him back to sleep. For a moment he feels warm and content, still relaxed and lazy, loose and wrung out from the night before. He presses his face into the pillow, breathes deeply and lets his eyes close again, tries not to feel guilty about not getting out of bed and going to do something.

There’s a line of heat and weight down his right side, warm breath fanning across his shoulder. He can feel Tony’s hand low on his back, the thumb stroking against his skin an indication that Tony is awake too. He breathes deeply again, holds it in as it expands his lungs, holds it in until the feeling of his stomach dipping and his heart feeling weak inside his chest are replaced with the burning need for oxygen. He breathes again, feels it catch in his throat as Tony’s hand stills and his lips press against his shoulder.

He’d gone to bed with Tony the night before. He hadn’t meant to forget or deny it, but the realisation of it, the memory of the night before, makes him feel strange. He doesn’t want to say it makes him feel sick, but it makes him feel something, suddenly drawn too tight, needing a way to release that tension.

It is one thing to have slept with Tony, to ask to be fucked, but it is another thing to have stayed the night.

But he had.

Tony kisses his shoulder again, a gentle scrape of facial hair against his skin, fingers teasing patterns into his back. “Steve, darling?” Tony’s lips whisper against the point of his shoulder. “Are you awake?”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t open his eyes, but he knows that he can’t fake being asleep. He can’t put off facing the reality of the situation he is in, so he shifts, rolling over to face Tony, taking in the pillow creases on his cheek and the slow, sleepy smile that teases at the edge of his lips. Like he isn’t quite sure if he should smile or not.

Tony’s fingers tap a rhythm against his spine, a beat that seems vaguely familiar. “Morning, beautiful.” 

He frowns in response, wants to argue that he isn’t beautiful, that women are beautiful, not men. However, he has thought Tony beautiful before, several times, and it will make him a hypocrite, even if only in his own head. “Morning,” He eventually grumbles the reply, voice sleep rough. 

Tony’s smile grows, his eyes shining with it, warm, looking too fond. “How are you? Sleep well?” 

It feels like it should be obvious that he slept well, the fact that he’s still in bed evidence enough that he slept too well, but he can’t bring himself to reply with words that he’s sure he’ll regret. Instead, he hums a response, sleepy and content and lets his eyes close again when Tony’s hand leaves his back and settles on the back of his neck, fingers combing through his hair and pressing into his scalp. It reminds him of how he touched Tony the night before, when he was explaining without words all the reasons he shouldn’t stay. Then he’d ruined all that logic by staying. He’d wanted to, hadn’t wanted to leave. 

Still doesn’t. 

He can feel it, the twisting in his stomach, an ache in his bones, this want and need for Tony that he had tried to ignore, had failed to ignore, and it’s still there. Even after the night before, after giving in and hoping that once would be enough. 

“Steve, is everything okay?”

Tony’s words make him realise he’s frowning. He doesn’t know how to answer, how to take the concern in Tony’s voice. How to face the truth that everything isn’t okay. How nothing is okay because he’s feeling things he really shouldn’t. He doesn’t answer. Instead he leans closer and kisses Tony, clumsy, blinded by closed eyes. 

Tony makes a small sound, surprised, and his fingers flutter against the back of Steve’s neck, but he doesn’t hesitate to kiss back, letting it linger. 

Steve draws back, blinking his eyes open again and taking in the way that Tony’s looking at him, a little wide eyed and with the faintest evidence of colour on his cheeks. “How are you?” 

The question is a landmine, he knows it, knows that the truth probably isn’t what he wants to hear, but at the same time he can’t stand the thought of Tony lying and trying to cover up his poor health. He reaches over, lets his hand settle on Tony’s hip, feeling the fabric of the t-shirt and boxers he’s wearing. Plucks at it with his thumb and fingers, feels his nail catch slightly on Tony’s skin beneath. He searches Tony’s face, looks for signs that he didn’t sleep well, that he might be getting sick again, but he can’t find them. Tony looks rested, looks happy, with smile lines at the corner of his eyes and the slight sparkle he remembers from good days. It makes his heart feel unsettled in his chest, wobbly and beating too fast, at the very idea that maybe he had something to do with Tony’s current happiness. 

Tony smiles a little wider, his fingers resume stroking through his hair, fingernails scraping into his scalp. “I’m good, darling. Very well.” He pauses for a moment, looking contemplative, his smile flickering slightly. Tony looks uncertain for a moment, almost shy, which is not an expression Steve thought he’d ever see on Tony. 

“I’m glad you stayed.” 

The words fill the space between them and Tony smiles like a mask, quick and confident, erasing any sense of doubt that he’d been showing before. The words make Steve’s stomach dip, make his bones ache and his fingers clench tighter around Tony’s t-shirt. He swallows the lump in his throat and tries not to think too hard about what the words mean. About what Tony is saying, what he might be implying. What he hopes Tony is implying. His heart feels too quick, feels like panic similar to when he woke up in a new time and had no idea where he was. Similar to the sense of deep panic, aching and slow, when he can’t keep track of his team on the battlefield. 

He can’t breathe around it, can’t think past it, feels the panic surging and roiling in his stomach and climbing into his chest. A panic that feels terrifyingly like hope. Hope that Tony means it, that he means he wants him to stay again in the future. He pushes the panic down, squashes it in the pit of his stomach and tries to lock it away there, tries to put on his game face, and ignore the way that hoping Tony wants him again feels like the aching ghost of hoping that Gail would say yes when he proposed. He doesn’t want to think of Gail. No more than he wants to think of Jan. He doesn’t really want to think about Tony either. He wants to stop thinking, but he knows it’s a terrible idea. _You stopped thinking last night and just look what happened then._

“Me too.” The words crack out into the open, words he can’t imagine saying even though they are in his own voice. He didn’t want to admit that, not out loud, not to himself, definitely not to Tony, but the words are out there now and Tony is smiling bright and sunny and less like a carefully constructed defence, and maybe, maybe the words were worth saying. 

The fingers in his hair dance across the back of his neck, teasing the tension out of his muscles, as Tony leans closer across the mattress, shifting his weight so he’s leaning more over Steve. He kisses him, slow, sweet, despite them both tasting like stale sleep. He kisses him like it doesn’t matter what he tastes like, like he could get used to kissing him in the mornings, and there’s another jolt of panic when Steve realises that he wants to get used to kissing Tony in the mornings. Wants another opportunity to do this again in the future, wants another chance to make Tony smile like he really means it. 

A chance that he knows, even if he lets himself reach for it, will always be elusively out of reach. Another future that he knows will be torn from his life just as he gets comfortable with the idea of it being his to cherish. He doesn’t know how to lose Tony as a teammate, even though he knows it is coming. Selfishly, he doesn’t want to contemplate losing Tony as a lover. As someone he comes home to every night and gets to see smile all the time. 

As his sweetheart. 

He forces the ideas away, the terms of endearment and the sentimentality they hold. The hopes and fears for a future that he has no hope of controlling. Pushes the ideas away until everything is physical again. Until his world is again filled with the sensation of Tony kissing him, the way he’s shifting them until Steve is settled back against the bed and Tony is hovering over him. The position, the feeling of Tony leaning over him, the way his fingers curl around the back of his neck and hold him, it’s possessive and wonderful. It’s terrifying how it makes him feel, how it spikes lust and desire through his body. He can feel arousal creeping through him, and wishes that he’d been brave enough the night before to let Tony take him while they were facing each other. He could have spread his legs for Tony, bracketed him between his thighs and been able to see his face while he let him fuck him. So he could have seen the way that Tony looked. Seen if Tony enjoyed it as much as he had. The thought terrifies him, the wanting, needing feeling knocks the breath out of him. He wants to do that, wants the chance to do it, to have Tony inside him and see his face at the same time. To be inside Tony and watch him lose control and fall apart, if Tony will let him. He wants it so much he aches, is hard instantly and is gasping against Tony’s lips without even knowing he is until Tony starts to draw away. He catches his shoulder, holds him there before he can pull too far away and blinks at him, trying to drag his breathing back under control, but he feels one lung short, like he’s jumped out of plane too high up and can’t quite adjust to freefall. 

Tony studies him, eyes wide and searching, looking for a sign that he should back away, that he isn’t wanted, and Steve counts it as a victory when Tony doesn’t seem to find anything of the sort and remains where he is, carefully poised over him, one knee between his thighs. 

“What do you want, darling?” 

“I want,” He pauses, tries to think of the best way to say it, words that will be alluring and seductive and worthy of propositioning someone like Tony, but just like the night before he draws a complete blank. Words have never been his strong point. Unless they are scripted they usually get him in trouble. “I want you, again, like last night.” He knows he could just ask Tony to fuck him again, it had worked the night before, but somehow the words didn’t occur to him until after he’d already spoken. 

Tony smiles at him, slow and borderline predatory, but his hands are cautious and gentle as they encourage his legs to spread wider and one hand slips lower, further, until he feels the tip of one finger brush against him through the cotton of his underwear, touching the place that Tony had so carefully opened up the night before. He flinches, not meaning too, not really sure why until his brain belatedly supplies the feedback that he’s just a fraction too sensitive there. He feels shame colouring his cheeks. For all the perks of being a super solider, he hadn’t thought that sensitivity was something he’d have to deal with, not the morning after. He knows, that more than anything, it’s more in his mind than it is in his body, and that makes it even worse. 

Tony’s eyebrows crease ever so slightly into a frown, smoothing over almost immediately. He pulls his hand back, curling his fingers around the elastic waistband of Steve’s underwear and starts to tug it down. He dips down as the fabric creeps lower; pressing kisses to the points of Steve’s hipbones and to the bottom edge of his navel. Steve flinches again when he feels Tony’s tongue flick out over the rim of his navel before he nips at the skin just below it. He feels the way Tony grins against his stomach, and he can’t help but huff out a breath that is meant to be exasperated, even though he knows that each time he does, he gets closer and closer to sounding more fond than he does annoyed. 

Tony presses another kiss into his skin before he draws back enough so they make eye contact. “I have a better idea, darling.” When he grins it’s dangerous and salacious. 

“A better idea than sex, Stark? Didn’t know you had those unless it involves robots and I’m afraid I’m not quite up for that.” The sassy reply surprises him more than it surprises Tony, if the amused smile he receives is anything to go by, like Tony was just waiting for some of their usual friendly banter to resurface. It’s good, he realises, to slip back into old habits, it makes something loosen inside him, relax, and he finds himself smiling back at Tony. He thinks, quite unreasonably, that he could get used to this, that he wants a chance to get used to this, but those thoughts are too dangerous to entertain. 

“Yes, my dear Captain, something better than penetrative sex, or at least on a par with it.” Tony smiles at him, eyes alight as he continues to edge Steve’s underwear over his hips and down his thighs, freeing Steve’s erection. “You really are spectacular.” 

Tony says it so matter of fact that it takes him a moment to feel embarrassed, the complement making his cheeks heat more than they already were. He wants to say something back, knows he should return the complement in some way, but he can’t find words for all the things he thinks about Tony. Instead he moves his hand away from where it’s curled around Tony’s shoulder, trails his fingers up his neck and brushes the pad of his thumb along the line of Tony’s cheek bone. Soft and gentle, and hoping that it says everything he can’t. That he wants Tony, wants him to feel as cherished as Tony made him feel the night before. Cherished in a way that doesn’t come with strings attached and that doesn’t need to be put on display for the whole world to scrutinise. 

Tony’s smile falters, turns softer, his eyes look almost sad, and that isn’t the reaction that Steve wants at all. In an instant that expression is gone and Tony is smiling salaciously again, fingers dancing back up his thighs until one hand curls around his cock. He doesn’t flinch away this time, has to force himself not to buck his hips up for immediate friction. Tony doesn’t make him wait long, fingers and palm cool against his skin as they tighten and drag up in a slow motion. It takes a moment to realise that Tony has spoken to him even though he can see his lips moving to form words through a smirk. 

“I promise, no robots.” 

He doesn’t get a chance to reply, to even think of a possible response that is more than just rolling his eyes, before Tony dips his body down and takes him into his mouth. It’s an assault of heat compared to the coolness of his hand, and the fingers he’d been trailing against Tony’s neck reflexively clench around his hair. He’s sure it’s too tight, means to let go and apologise, but is caught off guard when Tony moans around him, a sound that is positively scandalous. He looks down at Tony, meets his eyes for a moment as Tony gazes back up at him, pupils blown wide, and sees what can only be deciphered as a very deliberate nod of consent. He tightens his fingers ever so slightly, hears Tony moan again as he sinks his mouth lower, taking more of him in. Warmth, with the cooler counterpoint of Tony’s fingers still wrapped around him, and he can’t hold his head up any more, letting it thump back against the pillows. He feels Tony start to move, easing off and then sucking him back down, changing his rhythm every time he thinks he’ll get used to it. It’s infuriating and exhilarating and he keeps threading his fingers through Tony’s hair, trying to never be too forceful, but every time he thinks he’s been too rough, he feels the vibration of Tony’s moans. He hadn’t thought that Tony would enjoy it as much as he is. It sparks all sorts of thoughts in his head, questions of just how rough Tony likes his partners getting, and just how rough he likes to get with them. It makes his stomach dip in a confused mixture of arousal and horror. There’s no denying that Tony must have been taking it easy on him the night before. 

The worst thing is, he can’t decide if he’s grateful or not. 

He could lose himself in the feeling on Tony’s mouth on him, he knows that, that it is something he could get addicted to, and the thought scares him, even as he can feel his stomach dipping into a warm spike of arousal. He brushes his fingers through Tony’s hair again as he feels his tongue dragging flat up the length of his erection. A shudder rolls through him, body moving uncontrollably, his hips hitching up off the bed trying to chase the heat and sensation of Tony’s mouth. He feels a hand close around the curve of his hip, guiding him back to the bed and holding him there, the same as he had held him against the mattress the night before. 

It’s too much, he feels his orgasm swoop through him before he’s ready for it, barely stuttering out a warning before he feels like he’s curling up off the bed, nerve endings singing and everything feeling like it is too much. He can feel Tony swallowing around him, tries not to clench his hand too tightly in his hair, and only vaguely aware that his other hand has settled on the back of Tony’s neck, holding him closer than he should. 

He makes his hands relax, tries to will his body to stop shaking in the aftermath. He feels listless and warm, not even uncomfortable with the fact that his underwear is still hooked around his thighs, digging a little too tightly into his skin. He strokes his hand through Tony’s hair again, dragging the soft strands between his fingers. Tony’s let his hair grow out longer than it was when they first met, going to the slightly fluffy stage and stays sticking up after he’s run his fingers through it. He’s always liked Tony’s hair, even though he tries to convince himself that it is because the texture, the softness of it reminds him of Gail’s hair, and the colour reminds him of Jan’s but he knows that he mostly likes Tony’s hair just because it’s Tony’s. He can’t pretend that he doesn’t like Tony just for who he is. 

He is dragged back out of his thoughts and into the present moment when Tony moves back up his chest panting, licking his lips like swallowing Steve’s come was perfectly normal. He kisses Steve’s collarbone as he drapes himself over Steve’s body, like it’s his right. “Was that good for you, darling?” 

He can feel how hard Tony still is, pressing against his thigh, and making his own cock jerk in interest. He wants to answer, but doesn’t feel like he can say words around the pulse in his throat. He tips his head enough to kiss Tony’s hair and nods the best he can. He should return the favour, though he very much doubts that he’d be even half as good as Tony at giving head, but it feels like it would be the polite thing to do. There’s a chance too, that Tony might find his inexperience more endearing than off putting. He tries to figure out how best to manoeuvre Tony in order to do it, when he remembers exactly where Tony’s cock had been the night before and how they hadn’t exactly washed since then, and the idea of putting it in his mouth just seems unsanitary. He blanches at the idea, and then berates himself for finding any excuse not to return the favour. He knows he’s scowling when he shifts Tony to the side a little, holds his tight with one arm, and stuffs the other between them so he can get his hand down Tony’s boxers. 

Tony lets out a startled noise that tapers off into a groan when Steve’s wraps his fingers around his erection, giving him no grace period before he starts moving his hand, jerking him off a little roughly. 

Tony laughs against his neck, patting his chest gently. “Easy there, soldier, it’s not a race.” 

He feels himself blush, but slows down his movements, eases off his grip a little bit. Tries to think about what he likes himself and replicate that with only half the sensory input. Tony sighs against the junction of his neck and shoulder, a content sound and he takes that to mean he’s achieving the right balance of gentle friction and rhythm. On the next up stroke, he thumbs the head and takes satisfaction in the way the other man’s breath hitches and the responding nip of teeth against his skin a moment later. 

He nearly falters in his rhythm when Tony’s mouth latches onto the skin over his collarbone, teeth worrying the flesh as he sucks gently. He knows that any resulting mark will fade within a matter of hours, but that Tony wants to mark him up all the same makes him feel desired in an entirely different way from how he’s ever felt before. It’s possessive, like the curl of fingers around the back of his neck, like the hand on his back the night before. Like the way Tony had held him against the bed with his own body weight. It makes him think, that in his own little ways, Tony is trying to claim him as his. It’s not something he should want, he knows that, it’s something he should avoid, but he wants it so much, to be Tony’s, to matter to him and for one night and the following morning to actually mean something. 

So he doesn’t stop Tony, doesn’t jerk away, but holds him tighter against his body, and picks up the pace of each stroke, each swipe of his thumb and the barest increase in pressure on the down stroke. He keeps going until Tony stops abusing his skin with his mouth and instead pants harshly against the stinging skin, until he can feel Tony rutting against his thigh and into his hand. He holds Tony as he shakes apart and come splatters over his fingers, thigh and high up enough to reach his hip and stomach. 

After a moment he moves his hand away, lets go of Tony and extracts his hand from inside Tony’s boxers, wiping his come off of his hand and onto his opposite thigh. He’s already in desperate need of a shower, so it seems pointless to wipe it anywhere else. Tony’s breathing has calmed down, but still feels damp against his skin, and if he concentrates enough he thinks he can feel Tony’s heartbeat where his chest is pressed against his side. 

They’re quiet for a while, Tony breathing against his skin, shifting occasionally enough to press kisses against the hollow of his throat. Steve strokes his hand up and down the length of Tony’s spine, trying to keep his touch gentle and soothing. Tony lets out a huff of breath, a sigh, and shifts enough to prop himself up on his chest so that he can look at Steve’s face. His pupils still seem a little dilated, and he can’t help but wonder if Tony had been this wrecked the night before, or if it was possible that he gave a better hand job than he did a fuck. It would make sense if he did, based on experience alone, but something cold like shame slithers down his spine at the idea maybe the night before hadn’t been good for Tony despite everything he’d said. Surely he was used to much more involved partners. 

A hand settles on the side of his face, thumb tracing his bottom lip, directing him to turn his head, and he realises belatedly that he had turned away from Tony. The other man is looking at him, face sober and a hint of concern, he pauses a moment before leaning down to pressed a chaste kiss where his thumb was a moment before. 

It feels like the moment to say all the important things, now that they are both satisfied and before they make themselves get out of bed and go back to the real world. But Steve can’t bring himself to say anything, half afraid that if he opens his mouth he’ll say all manner of stupid and insecure things about where they can possibly go from here. Tony looks like he’s about to say something several times, but each time he remains silent, thumb never ceasing its gentle path along Steve’s bottom lip. 

“Do you—” Tony starts to say something before pausing, looking uncertain for a fraction of a second. “Do you want breakfast, Steve? Maybe something to drink?” 

He feels himself frown before he can stop it, hoping that Tony isn’t really suggesting alcohol first thing in the morning. 

Tony catches the look and winces before plastering on a smile to cover it. “Coffee, darling, or tea. Water, juice, smoothie, whatever your preference. I do think it’s a little early for wine, even for me.” 

Guilt settles in his chest, heavy and uncomfortable, and he doesn’t like that fact that he made Tony second guess himself, made him feel like he doubted him. It really isn’t his place to judge Tony, even if he doesn’t like the fact that the man drinks far too much. He can’t just dictate what he does; one night didn’t give him the right to, if years of friendship hadn’t. “I think, I’ll have that shower now, if the offer is still open.”

Tony nods, shifting back away from him and off the bed. He means to move as soon as Tony has, but gets caught up in watching the other man as he stretches, arms up over his head as he curves backwards. It’s a move that looks graceful, and not even slightly out of place on Tony at all. When Tony catches him looking he winks, smirking before dropping back into a relaxed stance and reaching for the robe that he’d discarded the night before. “I’ll go see what I can find in the way of food, while you shower, darling. Unless you want me to join you?” 

Steve feels his face heat up even as he glares in the other man’s direction. The concept of sharing a shower shouldn’t bother him, he knows that, not after they’ve shared a bed, but there is something about the idea that feels too domestic, too romantic, too much of a lot of things that he doesn’t really want to think about. So he doesn’t. He rolls off the bed and heads towards the door that Tony had been in and out of the night before. He tries to pretend that he isn’t running away when he shuts the bathroom door and turns to face the shower. Just because Tony said he could help himself to the shower, he doesn’t think he meant for him to head for the other room quite so quickly. His chest feels tight, juxtaposition to how wrung out the rest of his body feels. 

The bathroom is more extravagant than he is used too, but he isn’t surprised, given that it belongs to Tony, and just about everything Tony owns and does is extravagant. He moves to turn the shower on, going to step behind the clear glass screen that is open at one end, but as he does, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. He’s frowning, without even realising it, and the skin on his face, neck and chest is flushed pink. The mark that Tony had bitten and sucked into his skin is still there, dark and mottled like a bruise, already starting to fade and yellow around the edges. He resists the urge to touch it. 

He runs the shower as hot as he can stand, a luxury that he still makes the most of whenever he can, stands beneath the spray of water and braces one hand against the wall because he still feels a little unsteady. He lets the hot water run over him, and doesn’t mean to think about what it would have been like if he’d asked Tony to join him. Would they have just washed themselves and enjoyed a companionable silence. He can’t imagine Tony being that restrained in a shower with someone else. He can imagine Tony pressing up close to him, nuzzling into his neck and his hands being everywhere, always moving, touching everything he can. He can imagine Tony sinking to his knees, never minding the tiles on the floor, or the water streaming down on them. He’s hard just thinking of Tony sucking him off in the shower, the way he would hold his hips still and dig his fingers into his skin. The way he’d tip his head back and blink up at him despite the water, and the way he’d smile in satisfaction, knowing that he’d well and truly destroyed Steve just with his mouth. 

He jerks himself off to the image of Tony on his knees, knowing there’s no way he can ignoring the throbbing ache of arousal, feels guilt and self-loathing curling in his gut because despite everything they’ve done so far, masturbating to the image of Tony, in the man’s own shower, feels more like taking advantage of him than even rocking up on his doorstep and asking to be fucked. When he comes it feels hollow and not nearly as satisfying as any of the orgasms he had in Tony’s bed and watching his semen wash away down the drain feels shameful. He scrubs himself with ruthless efficiency after that, determined not to spend any more time in the shower than he has to, not wanting his imagination to get the better of him again. He ignores the dozen or so products that Tony has in the shower, paying no further attention to them than briefly wondering if he even uses a half of them. 

When he’s finished in the shower he dries himself off and returns to the bedroom, borrowed towel wrapped around him waist, deliberately ignoring his reflection as he passes the mirror. Tony isn’t in the bedroom, but everything else looks just the way it had before he went to shower. He’s acutely grateful that the other man isn’t there, and hopefully wasn’t close enough to know that he’d just masturbated in the shower to the thought of him. He thinks, that if Tony knew that, he’d never let him forget what he’d done. Knowing Tony, he’d probably take it as a compliment. He half smiles at the thought before he catches himself and shakes his head. _Stark’ll turn me into a sentimental bastard if I don’t watch myself._

Dressed in his clothes from the night before, Steve wanders out of the bedroom and starts a path through the house in search of Tony. It’s not like he hasn’t been in Tony’s house before, but it feels strange to be walking around unaccompanied. He stops in the doorway of the kitchen, for once not occupied by Jarvis, but by Tony himself. Tony’s leaning against the counter, one hand braced against the edge, the other rubbing gently at his temple. He doesn’t look up when Steve steps into the room, eyes closed like he’s blocking out the world.

Steve steps closer, not sure if he should just leave, or if he should say something before he leaves. He can’t ask to stay, there’s no reason to; Tony probably has meetings and he has already stayed longer than he was ever going to. But he doesn’t want to leave, not just yet.

“Your bathroom is a little...” He trails off, drawing blanks when he tries to think of a way to describe what he’d been faced with when he went for a shower.

Tony’s lips curve into a smile, he looks tired, worse than he did last night, a rapid decline from how he’d looked, sleep rumpled and lazy, an hour earlier. “A little, yeah.” Like he doesn’t need Steve to even finish the sentence to know what he means.

It’s just awkward conversation though, not anything of substance. He shakes his head, reprimanding himself for letting it get awkward. Making it awkward. He steps forward again, closer to Tony, reaches out, hesitates a moment before cupping the back of Tony’s head. He pulls him forward, leans in closer and presses his lips to the place where Tony’s fingers had been massaging.

He lingers there, feels Tony freeze beneath his touch, not breathe for a moment before he inhales sharply and leans against him. He lingers there, breathes in the scent of Tony’s skin, hair, shampoo, something rich and distinctly Tony.

He lingers there and doesn’t say the words he really wants to. _Please don’t get sick again._

He knows he had no hope, and doesn’t know who he was trying to kid, he’s always been a sentimental bastard and Tony has somehow slipped into the position front and centre of everything he cares about. He dreads the idea of losing Tony, dreads the idea of losing a life with another person that he wants but doesn’t think he’ll ever have. Even if Tony wasn’t dying, there is no certainty that they will ever be anything more than teammates. 

Tony shifts turning more towards him and tucks his body closer; one hand settling on his hip while the other still leans against the counter. He knows Tony is smiling even though he can’t see it in his face, but he can feel it in the way his shoulders relax and his fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt. Can hear it in his voice when he speaks. “Not that I was ever going to complain about the sexed up and debauched look and smell you had going on this morning, Captain, you do smell divine all scrubbed up and clean.” 

He rolls his eyes, letting out an exasperated breath against Tony’s hair. Trust him to know just what to say to pull him out of his funk. “Some of us like to look respectable in the mornings, Stark.” 

Tony pulls back away from him, not dropping his hand away, but enough to tip his head back and grin at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m perfectly respectable,” He moves his hand away from the counter to pluck at the open collar of his robe. “This is fashionable and my colour.” 

He can’t help but smile back, shaking his head a little in amusement. “Thought red and gold were your colours, Iron Man.” 

“That they are,” Tony replies, leaning in to press a kiss to Steve’s chin, smiling wider at the way he scrunches up his nose in response. “But you can’t deny that this also looks good on me.” 

Tony’s the sort of person who looks good in anything or nothing, and now Steve knows the latter for certain, but he doesn’t say that out loud, just squeezes his hand gently around the back of Tony’s neck before he steps back. “Didn’t you say something about breakfast?” 

Changing the subject isn’t subtle, but Steve decidedly doesn’t want to get into discussions of just how good he thinks Tony does or doesn’t look. Tony just smiles at him, indulgently, like he knows what he’s doing, but is going to let him get away with it, and turns back towards the counter top, where there is a machine slowly percolating coffee. 

“Breakfast is on the way up, I ordered a range of things, wasn’t sure what you’d feel like, and there’s coffee almost done, if you want coffee.” As Tony says this, he drags a mug closer to him across the counter top, and pulls the coffee carafe from the machine to pour himself a mug full, lifting the carafe in offer towards Steve, who nods in response. “Good man, never did trust someone who didn’t like coffee in the mornings.” 

Steve accepts the mug that Tony sets on the counter directly in front of him, forgoing milk and sugar half because Tony doesn’t appear to take it, and half because he’s never been particularly fussy when it comes to coffee or food. Spending time on war rations would do that to a person. He doesn’t say that though, doesn’t want to highlight the fact that even after years in this time, it never has really been his, that he still feels completely lost and out of time for days and weeks on end. He’s not sure if maybe he’s giving off some sort of sign that he’s slipping into a funk again, or if it’s Tony own persuasion toward being overly tactile, but Tony leans into him, not so they are touching, but it’s a near thing. He can feel Tony’s warmth radiating against his side, and feels his heart go a little wonky in his chest. For an instant he wants to wrap one arm around Tony’s shoulders and just hold him close. To cover it up, counteract it, Steve gulps down half his coffee in one mouthful, and holds the mug tightly with both hands in front of him just to stop the urge. 

He hears the elevator doors opening just as Tony looks at his phone on the counter, a message flashing up there that causes him to smile. The sound of other people in the building makes Steve tense instinctively, on alert already, despite knowing that Tony would probably have enough ways of keeping unwelcome visitors out of his home. When Tony steps away from the counter and starts towards the door leading out the opposite side of the kitchen to where Steve entered, he follows instinctively, half wishing for something in the way of protection, just in case. 

As if sensing his unease, Tony glances over his shoulder, eyes crinkled in a smile that isn’t present on his lips. “Breakfast is here, Captain, so we might as well get in while it’s still hot. Or cold, depending on what you go for.” 

He feels his lips twitch in a half smile in response, it’s nearly automatic, and it’s getting hard to pretend that he isn’t noticing his own penchant for smiling more when he’s around Tony. He isn’t sure if it is only a recent development, or if he was just better at ignoring it before. Though, he thinks that Tony seeming to return his affection is probably a good catalyst. He has half a mind to reach out and touch Tony, just to remind himself that the night before and that morning were in fact real, and not some sort of messed up dream conjured up by his lonely mind. He doesn’t, mostly because he’s nearly sure that he’ll be disappointed if he does, but also because Tony is a few too many steps ahead of him, and it would be awkward to achieve without looking at least a little ways desperate, and he doesn’t want Tony to think that of him. 

It isn’t surprising at all that by the time they get into the dining room there is not a soul in sight. It’s a given that anyone Tony employs, even on a short-term basis, would be ruthlessly efficient and nearly invisible unless otherwise requested. There is food spread out over the top of the table, ranging from fresh fruit, a variety of juices, toast, croissants, right through to eggs and bacon. Predictably, there’s another pot of coffee sitting right in front of the place set at the head of the table. 

There’s another place set, to Tony’s right, and as Steve sits, it feels so familiar that he half expects Thor to sit down across from him, or for Jarvis to be lurking about in his preposterous waistcoat. Tony refills both their coffees before taking a seat himself, leaning back in his chair and making himself comfortable. He doesn’t seem inclined to eat straight away, and it makes Steve feel a little self-conscious when he starts to reach for food himself, but Tony waves him on when he hesitates, indicating for him to keep going.

They share a silence, while he eats and Tony drinks his coffee, until he starts to feel like it’s getting awkward, and to stop himself starting to talk about the ridiculous amount of food, he asks after the lack of house staff. “Give everyone the day off did you?” 

Tony raises an eyebrow, sips at his coffee and shrugs, like the empty house hadn’t even occurred to him. “Jarvis occasionally earns himself a weekend off,” he’s tone is light hearted, jesting, but then he sets his mug down on the table top and leans forward, fixing a cautious look at Steve. “And, when you arrived here last night, I instructed everyone to take the night off. I didn’t think you would appreciate the audience.” 

The bite he swallows sits hard in his throat, and he wants to assure Tony that it wouldn’t have mattered, that he isn’t ashamed of what they have done, but at the same time he knows that if he’d seen one person on the way to Tony’s room the night before he probably would have turned tail and left. He does appreciate the gesture, the fact that Tony even thought it might have affected him, when he knows that Tony is so used to every aspect of his life being on display. He knew that about Tony, coming into this, knows that neither of them live particularly private lives any more, even if he does attempt to keep a part of his life separate from the world. He knows that there is little chance of this staying private if it is ever anything more than just one night, and he honestly doesn’t know how he feels about that. Which is ludicrous and a touch hypocritical given that he had very few qualms stepping out with an already married woman. Stepping out with Tony shouldn’t be harder to imagine. Shouldn’t be harder to want. 

“Thanks.” He chokes the word out, takes a drink to try and cover his own discomfort, and looks determinedly back at his food, not entirely sure if he’s hungry any more or not. He knows that if he really was the brave sort, he’d say all the things that he means to, tell Tony that he can’t get him out of his head, ask for another chance, another night. More chances, more nights, until he’s used to the idea of being with Tony. Until he can admit that it is what he wants. But words get him in trouble, and he’s braver with actions than he’s ever been with words. Fighting is easy, combat he lives and breathes. But this, sitting in Tony’s dining room, eating breakfast with him after having spent the night in his bed, like it’s the most normal thing ever, he doesn’t know how to do this. 

When he looks back up, Tony is still watching him intently, like he’s waiting for him to say something more, waiting for him to show his hand, but he can’t do that. Instead he looks pointedly at Tony’s still empty plate and reaches over to move the coffee pot to his other side and well out of Tony’s reach. “You should eat something.” 

Tony makes an indignant sound, clutching his coffee mug like he doesn’t put it past Steve to try and take that away from him too. “You’re going to hold the coffee hostage until I do, I suppose, Rogers? Is that the grand plan here?” 

Steve nods in response, letting his lips quirk up a bit into a smile as he goes back to eating his own breakfast. He looks at Tony, daring him to even protest, but the other man doesn’t. He sits forward in his chair, making a show of reluctantly reaching for a croissant and then only picking at it rather than eating it normally. It’s not like he’s made a habit of watching Tony’s eating habits before, but it hits him suddenly that despite the smiles and the relaxed appearance, it’s possible that Tony isn’t feeling well at all. Not well enough to eat anyway. Cold guilt settles in his chest, tightening around his lungs and making it harder to breathe. He should ask, should check if Tony’s all right, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge that everything might not be okay. 

“Tony—” he starts, meaning to say more, but the words choke in his chest and don’t make it any further than jumbled in his mind. 

Tony glances at him, raising an eyebrow as he pops a piece of croissant in his mouth, chewing and swallowing deliberately just to prove that he is eating. “And after I’d be so kind to you too, Captain. I feel betrayed.” 

He hands the coffee back, without really thinking about it, feeling too guilty to even bother making an argument. He can’t ignore what it is that Tony said to him though, because he’s right, he has been very kind to him. Kinder to him and treated him better than he probably deserved. It is more than likely that Tony treats all his bed partners like that, but that isn’t a thought that he wants to dwell on, because it made something suspiciously like jealousy start to swirl in his chest. “You have been.” 

Tony’s face sobers, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches Steve intently, waiting for him to elaborate. 

“Kind to me. You have been. Thank you.” He chokes out the words, not quite looking Tony in the eye, looking back at his plate and forcing himself to eat more to at least give himself an excuse for not saying any more. He finishes what’s on his plate quickly, well aware that Tony is looking at him the entire time. He half wishes that Tony would say something, just to fill the awkward silence, but he isn’t really sure that he wants to hear what Tony has to say in response to that. It wasn’t the smartest thing to say; it feels like he’s shown his hand without even meaning to. 

Tony shifts forward in his chair again, dragging Steve’s attention back to him with the slightest shift of body weight. He smiles, eyes bright with it even as it stretches his lips. “You’re welcome, Steve. Any time.” Tony leans further forward, hand reaching under the table to touch Steve’s knee, just resting there lightly like he’s nearly expecting a rejection. “You deserve the chance to have a nice time, darling, not everything has to be about fighting the bad guys and following orders. Or giving them. Everyone deserves the chance to enjoy themselves on occasion.” 

He finds himself smiling back, like it’s infectious, feeling his face heat from the warm weight of Tony’s hand on his leg. He did enjoy himself, does enjoy himself around Tony. Even if every moment he lingers feels like he’s stealing them, every smile Tony gives him he wants to hide away to think about later, and he can’t deny the ever present sense of panic that these moments are going to consume him whole and burn him up until there is nothing left. Yet, he doesn’t want to leave, even though he knows he should, knows he has to, so they can go back to their separate lives and things can go back to normal when they are teammates who argue with each other but still work together brilliantly. Where he doesn’t have to think about how much he still wants this, still wants Tony, and it isn’t just the sex that he knows he’s craving, though that was so very good, it’s everything. The nights in Tony’s bed, the kisses he steals like it is his right, the meals together, just the permission to be part of his life and to be close. 

He wants all of that, but he doesn’t know how to have it, doesn’t know how to cope with the consequences of having that. Of being with Tony. 

“I should probably go.” It takes a moment to realise that he’s said the words, rather than hearing someone else saying them. Tony’s hand doesn’t leave his knee, but the smile on his face fades a fraction. “Don’t want to overstay my welcome.” _Don’t want to get too comfortable. Don’t want to get used to having this with you. Don’t want to have this only to lose it._

Tony pats his knee sharply before sitting back, offering him a flirtatious grin. “It’ll take a while before I ever get sick of you, Captain, but I’m sure that was just the polite way of saying you have other places to be. And why wouldn’t you? Busy man in demand, after all.” 

He frowns. It wasn’t quite what he was going for, but if Tony wants to make excuses for him, he isn’t sure he can correct him. He isn’t sure if he can say that he needs to leave before he no longer has the will to. If he stays just long enough to get comfortable with Tony he might never leave, even though he has no idea how long he’d need to reach that point. The rest of the day. Another night. Another morning waking up in Tony’s bed. Another few hours of Tony looking at him like he’s the most important thing in the world. He isn’t sure, it could be something as simple as that which will make his resolve crumble, and that scares him. That Tony has gotten under his skin so quickly. 

That Tony has gotten into his heart so quickly. 

He pushes that thought down viciously, gulps down the rest of his coffee to try and wash it away, and stands up before he can change his mind. It’s only once he’s standing and tidying up his plate and cutlery that he dares to look at Tony again. “I know I’m not the only one with a busy schedule, Stark, so don’t even pretend that you’d planned to spend the rest of the day entertaining me.” 

Tony grins, standing up after another moment, taking his time to adjust his robe again before stepping around the corner of the table to get into Steve’s space. “I would entertain you all day, darling, if I thought for a moment that you’d indulge in such a selfish pastime. But I know you aren’t the sort. Unfortunately, we both have busy lives, and you, my dear, made the mistake of coming over on a week night.” 

He feels the faint edge of arousal curl in his stomach at the very thought of spending the whole day being entertained by Tony, it doesn’t do much for his resolve, tempting him to take the chance, to spend the day like that, but he really doesn’t think that he should. Isn’t sure that he can risk doing that, not now, not this early on when he hopes that there will be another chance to do this all again, but not right now. He’s not sure he could survive if he stayed to spend the rest of the day with Tony. “I didn’t plan to stay the night.” He whispers the words into the small space left between them, watching Tony’s face as the smile drops away and he stares intently back at him. “But I’m glad that I did.” 

Tony closes his eyes, letting a breath out a little harshly. He reaches out, hands settling on Steve’s hips, and when he opens his eyes again, he smiles in a way that is miles away from his usual confidence. Leaning closer, he presses a kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth, nosing his cheek and not moving away again. “I’m glad you stayed too, darling, I really, really am.” 

The term of endearment, that he’s been hearing repeatedly since he arrived the night before, suddenly sounds like it means so much more than just a liberally applied pet name. It feels like a caress, soft and loving and he wants to hold on to the feeling as long as he can. He moves his arms to fold around Tony’s shoulders and back, stroking his fingers along the point of his shoulder and down along his spine. He knows that if there is any time to ask if they can do this again, it’s now, but he can’t get the words to form, can’t think of how to possibly ask without sounding half desperate and a lot needy. He doesn’t think he can handle it if Tony says no. Instead of talking, he turns his head a fraction and presses a kiss to Tony’s cheek. 

Tony finally pulls back, not out of Steve’s arms, but enough so that there is space between them and he can look Steve in the eyes. “I suppose I should let you go then, Captain.” He smiles as he says it, but it’s only the curve of his lips. His eyes aren’t smiling. Not like they had so often in the past few hours, instead they are focused and there is something flickering in his gaze that looks a lot like hope. 

It feels a little like he’s failed. It isn’t like he has been trying to make Tony happy all the time he’s been here, but every real smile felt like an achievement all the same. To lose those real smiles right at the end, when he is saying goodbye and leaving, doesn’t feel right at all. He tips his head forward, rests his forehead against Tony’s and lets his eyes close. “We’ve both got things to do.” There’s a note of resentment in his voice that he can’t ignore, and he doubts that Tony misses it either, if the way that his fingers clench tighter around his hips is any indication. “See you around, I guess.” 

Tony tilts his head enough that he can kiss him again; lips pressing against Steve’s gently, lingering there before he reluctantly pulls away. “Yes, I believe you will, darling.” 

When he steps back it takes more effort than he thought it would. Tony’s fingers linger against his hips even as he steps back, until they finally pull apart. There is something about the way that Tony is looking at him that he doesn’t really know what to make of; it is something like hope, almost expectant, and a fair touch nervous. He isn’t used to seeing Tony look nervous, and it doesn’t help his own nerves at all. He has to look away, finds himself looking at the table, at the ridiculous amount of food that is still left. Clearing his throat he moves to push his chair in. “Did you want me to help clean up?” 

Tony laughs, pouring himself another coffee and waving the offer off. “No, of course not, darling, you’ll do the house staff out of a job if you do.” He sips his coffee, looking at Steve over the top of his mug and his lips curve into a soft smile. “No, darling, you should get going, if that is what you need to do.” 

He nods, swallowing the lump that has started to form in his throat. It’s over, he thinks, everything that there might have been between him and Tony the night before and that morning, it is all gone, in a matter of minutes. He should have known that it would be like this, there isn’t really anything between them that would have any sort of longevity. He wasn’t even aware that he had been looking for anything lasting when he’d arrived there the night before, but he can’t push away the cold feeling of disappointment that settles over him. There was part of him, he thinks, that was hoping Tony would ask him to stay longer. Even though he knows that there isn’t much chance of that happening. “Thank you, Tony, for everything. For last night, and this morning.” 

Tony smiles at him again, soft and endearing like he had the night before, and he steps back closer, not setting his coffee down, but holding it out of the way with one hand. Placing the other hand on Steve’s elbow he steadies them both as he leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek, lips brushing the skin. “Any time, darling, it was my pleasure.” 

He leaves after that, because he knows if he doesn’t he won’t, and then he really will over stay his welcome. He leaves with ‘ _any time’_ echoing in his mind and really hoping that Tony meant it. Even though he had hoped that one night would be enough to get Tony out of his system, he knows that was never going to be enough. He had known it before he came to Tony, had just been in denial about it. One night was never going to be enough. He doesn’t think there is ever the chance of anything with Tony ever being enough. He gave in, was too weak to stay away from Tony even though he’d tried for so long, but even walking out of Tony’s front door and heading back to his own place, he doesn’t regret it. Doesn’t regret giving in. He just regrets not finding the courage to ask for more. The courage to tell Tony that he doesn’t want it to just be a one-time thing, that he wants more than just that. That he wants as much as Tony will let him have. 

He didn’t ask though. He didn’t find the words for that. And he regrets that. 

Regrets not finding the words to express how he feels about Tony. 

The regret follows him all the way home, back to his door even as he pushes it down with the memory of the words that Tony had said. _Any time_. Close enough to a promise that he could go back to Tony and ask for his attention again. Another time. _Any time._

He smells them before he sees them; the door barely shut behind him before the fragrance hits his nose and it shouldn’t be a surprise that Tony, or someone working for him, had gotten inside his home to leave flowers on his kitchen table.

They’re tulips, a bouquet of them, large and spectacular and he doesn’t even want to think about how much they must have cost. Red and yellow. So terribly egotistical in such a Tony Stark kind of way, his own colours in floral form casting a shadow over nearly the entire table top.

 _Oh, Tony,_ he thinks, reaching out letting his fingertips trail over the petals. Gently, gently, he doesn’t want to damage them at all, hands too big and too careless for the smaller finer things. _Do you even know what they mean?_

He does. He looked them up once, trying to pick flowers to mean the right thing even when he didn’t have to money to buy them for Gail.

Love. Declarations of. Hopelessly in. It hurts to think about.

He distracts himself instead by picking up the small white card that is nestled within the flowers. It surprises him that the message is written in Tony’s own hand, lettering more careful than usual but still distinctly his own penmanship.

_Captain,_

_Until next time, darling._

_TS xx_

He stares at the card for a moment, small and white nestled in the palm of his hand, small enough to fit perfectly. He doesn’t press the card to his chest like some sappy heroine from a daytime television soap opera but it is a near thing. His other hand squeezes the back of his neck, rubs up through his hair and over to settle over his eyes. In the self-inflicted darkness he can’t ignore the shallowness or sharpness of his breathing, the solid thump of his heart inside his chest or the way the pit of his stomach swoops at the memory of Tony. Tony pinning him to the bed, his weight and heat holding him there. Tony smiling at him rumpled with sleep. Tony’s eyes holding something so akin to hope when they had said goodbye.

 _Until next time._ He wants, wants and hopes and dreads the feeling of longing tugging at his heart because he doesn’t want to recognise that feeling for what it is. He shouldn’t entertain the notion, the promise the flowers hint at.

Because Tony Stark isn’t someone to fall in love with.

He knows it, has known it all along. _Tony Stark is someone you crash into love with and hope you survive the impact._

And he’s been doomed to crash and burn since the beginning. 


End file.
